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Tag Archives: love

So, long time. I’m rusty, unsurprisingly. I also keep waiting for my old Nook to auto-correct, which is awkward. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to rely on that handy feature to fix things for me. We all complain about Auto-correct’s failings, and there are many. But damn. It appears I can barely type without some kind of electronic intervention. Sad. Sadder still, I have an iPad now, but I haven’t downloaded the WordPress app and that is in part because I’m not convinced I remember my password. Whoops. I should do something about that at some point.

I bet you’ve all missed these clearly well-thought-out musings. I had the urge to write last night for the first time in ages, but the urge to sleep was greater still, and it won. Since it was my husband’s day off I was able to sleep the clock around, which was bliss. I woke up at 12:30pm with zero feelings of remorse.

School starts on Monday, and it will change our lives across the board. My husband has been a substitute teacher for the last year. He loves it, and he’s really good at it. He wants to go back to school to get his certification so that he can teach, possibly middle school science. Much more on this later. This summer has been rough without the mostly-steady income that subbing provided, and we will all be very grateful to have him back at it again. But what we haven’t quite determined is what to do about his other part-time jobs.

He’s been working at a grocery school since around the time school ended a few months ago. The pay is terrible, but it’s weekly, and there are definite advantages to having money always a few days away from coming in, however meager it might be. The school district pays once a month, five days AFTER our rent is due. You can imagine how much fun that is. It’s far better money, but it isn’t so much that it creates a surplus that will carry us easily through to his next paycheck. That weekly “grocery money” (Chris’ ironic nickname as it’s where it comes from and where it goes as well) is incredibly helpful. But I’m not sure how logical it is to expect him to work 8am to 3pm at school, then 4pm to 10pm at the store. While he’d only have that schedule three days a week, as he typically gets two weeknights off, it would still be exhausting. Oh, and as I mentioned he wants to go back to school. That schedule precludes that concept entirely. Additionally, he valet parks one extremely long day a week. But it’s a weekday, so neither of us can figure out whether it’s logical for him to hang onto that or not. With that job he also gets paid weekly, which is helpful. That regular influx of money has been a huge relief. It still obviously doesn’t pay as well as school, but relying on that once-a-month paycheck is a huge strain. We need to figure out how to proceed, but it’s tricky.

My daughter starts kindergarten on Monday – my baby! These five years have flown by, in spite of the financial stress and resulting loss we’ve struggled with. I’m excited for her, no question. That said, her school has half-day kindergarten and I work until 3:15pm. Ugh. So aftercare is required, and it’s $110 per week. Suddenly those annoying part-time jobs with weekly paychecks don’t seem so expendable. The aftercare program requires weekly payments, and won’t wait because the monthly paycheck from the district hasn’t arrived yet.

There’s no ready solution for any of this. We’re looking into his going back to school and taking on enough student loans to cover the cost of tuition, books AND his part-time job(s). Giving up the part-time jobs is the only feasible way he can study, regardless. It’s just that given what we’ve been through, willingly taking on debt, even of the student loan variety, is scary as hell.

My son is entering his last year of middle school, which is honestly a bit more than my brain can handle. His schedule is obscene; he’s in the GATE program and has a “zero hour” class this year, so school will start at 7am. Worse, we encouraged him to do this. We must have been out of our minds! We were watching the Olympics last night and talking about the next ones and whether Michael Phelps would in fact be there. My son said, “Wow, 2020.” I said, “Yes, and you’ll be 17.” That alone might have been horrifying enough, but of course my mind had to go to how old I’ll be in 2020. Jesus. So not okay.

I try hard to be relaxed about my age, especially now that I’m in the “older mom” category. I really do try, and I do all right, for the most part. But the realization that in 2020 I will be 51 years old just… honestly, it’s a giant mind fuck. I still feel 20-something, on average (and like I’m 15 on a bad day). Maybe I look 30-something on a good day, I’m not sure. But I just can’t picture myself at 50-something; it’s entirely unrelate-able to me. At the same time, I understand that getting older is a privilege, and not one everyone gets. So while I struggle with the notion of myself as “old,” the truth is I have an almost-5-year-old daughter and a 13-year-old son, so my reality is that old is good, or great, even. Hell, I’ll accept ancient, because I want to be around to watch them get married, have kids and figure out who they are. Since I had Avery at 42, those dreams absolutely require that I reach an advanced age. So bring it on, and I’ll work my way through my mental angst over being older than I feel.

Some days I look in the mirror and see every second of my life displayed in glaring detail on my face: gravity at work, bags under my eyes, those f’ing witch hairs that drive me to the brink. Others I look at my reflection and am surprised to find that I look pretty. There’s very little consistency and I’m never sure which version of me will appear. Is it my mind that skews what I see? It doesn’t seem to be solely mood-related. I can be having a great day and then catch sight of myself and think, “Yuck.” Conversely, I can be feeling shitty and then see myself and be shocked by the fact that I look great, especially for my age: glowing skin, relatively few wrinkles, eyebrows more or less on fleek. But all of this can change from day to day, or even hour to hour. So I never get the chance to build a solid sense of confidence, which sucks, but on the flip side I’m also not the depressed girl who never saw anything positive or appealing, even for a split second. The rotating image in the mirror might be tiring, but it’s better than it was. Speaking of tiring, I should edit this significantly. It feels like it should be a two-parter. It probably won’t, though.

A friend of mine posted today asking friends what their mission statement as a parent was. My first thought was, “On a daily basis or as a long-term goal?” She responded, “both” which left me thinking about the subject all day. It’s definitely something I think about all the time. regardless.

I did not grow up dreaming about being a mom. For a long time I was entirely convinced I just wasn’t the type of person “meant” to be a parent. I am not a natural caretaker, and I’ve never been good with kids. Hell, I wasn’t even all that good with kids when I was one. Then I met my future husband, and my attitude did an abrupt about-face. Not for him, mind you, but certainly in part because of him. How could I look at the man I loved with all of my heart and not want to create little beings who would be a part of each of us? So I’d changed my mind, but getting there was trickier than I could have imagined. It took us 15 months to get pregnant with my son… 15 very long months. They seemed long, anyway. Long enough that we started to be concerned that there might in fact be something wrong. Long enough that the giddiness we started out with was well and truly gone. When you’re single, you’re convinced that even if you do everything perfectly (well, as perfectly as one can without practicing abstinence) you’ll somehow end up pregnant. When you start trying to get pregnant and it turns out not to be as easy as you’d imagined, it seems like the world’s biggest irony.

After 15 months, we did get pregnant, no medical intervention required. We were elated. Then, after 13 weeks, I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, heard a sound like running water and thought I’d peed my pants. Looked down and saw blood all over the floor… a terrifying amount of blood. I assumed I had miscarried and immediately went into a state of shock. I couldn’t even see the point of going to the ER… I told Chris they weren’t going to be able to do anything, anyway. In the end, we did go to the emergency room, where I was forced to describe what had happened. They asked about pain, and I responded there had been none. I was told I probably had miscarried but they wanted to do an ultrasound regardless, to determine that I was all right. I remember thinking that was stupid, and that I obviously wasn’t all right. They had already given me an exam and were startled by the amount of blood. I was still bleeding, although not as profusely. Got taken to the ultrasound room, feeling like I was caught in a nightmare. The tech spread the gel over my abdomen. There was a long pause, and then I remember Chris telling me to look at the screen, and I couldn’t understand why he would want that. The screen was massive… not a small computer monitor like the normal ones but a giant one mounted near the ceiling. I saw it when we came into the room and thought it was cruel to have the screen so large here, of all places. I couldn’t imagine people ended up there often under happy circumstances. Anyway, again Chris told me again to look, that it was all right. I couldn’t imagine anything being all right, ever again, but somehow I looked. There on the screen was my baby, moving… dancing. The arms and legs were all in wild motion, and suddenly the giant screen didn’t seem like such a bad idea, after all. I couldn’t believe it. The detail was incredible… the last ultrasound I’d had he’d looked like a tadpole. Instead, now there was a baby on the screen above my head. A dancing baby. A very obviously alive baby. A miracle, really. I sobbed with joy.

No one was ever able to definitely tell me what had happened. They call it a “threatened abortion,” which seems like the worst name ever. Not only could they not tell me what had happened, or why, they couldn’t promise it would be okay, either. I spent the next several weeks afraid to move, as if lying still with my legs clamped tight would prevent a miscarriage. I prayed constantly, but I only wanted one outcome. God’s will in this was not relevant to me. I wanted one thing: that the dancing baby would live. The other thing I prayed for, almost as often, was his happiness. I wanted a happy child, probably because I hadn’t been one. I didn’t want my child to ever experience the kind of unhappiness I’d struggled with. Still don’t.

So my mission statement as a parent? Day to day, my goal is to remember what matters, to breathe before yelling, and to love them and make sure they know they are loved. Long-term, my goal is that they become strong, confident human beings who know exactly who they are and are completely comfortable with it. It’s also my long-term goal for myself, as it happens. Goals are a good thing.

What, you’re thinking gratitude is limitless? Just try to blog about it nonstop, and get back to me. I’ve been feeling a bit penned in by the gratitude challenge lately. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been giving me a lot, and my perspective drastically needed the shift it’s been getting. That said….

No one can be perpetually grateful. If I were better able to balance the gratitude posts with grittier ones, I might feel a bit less stifled. Unfortunately, I keep falling behind on the gratitude challenge, so when I’m able to sit down to write, I feel obligated to try to catch up. Especially lately, when I’m not even certain how far I am behind. I’ve noticed it feels awkward to juxtapose the gratitude posts with less positive ones. If I follow a gratitude post with a post complaining about something, I feel like it diminishes the gratitude. It shouldn’t, but somehow it does. Meanwhile, writing solely about things I am grateful for leaves me feeling unsatisfied, and vaguely like a pot that’s about to boil over. Clearly I need to find some balance, but that will mean finding more time. As it was, I started this post late last night, in bed. Avery was still wide awake, and kept peppering me with questions:

What are you doing, Mommy?

Writing, Avery.

Do you want to play Patty Cake? (I stopped to play.)

Do you want to play dollies?

No, I want to write.

Do you want to play Tag?

In bed? No, that makes no sense.

Mommy?

Go to sleep, Avery!

I ended up giving up. So now it’s late afternoon the next day, and this is the first chance I’ve gotten to write since last night. Avery is watching a dvd about the alphabet, but even so she’s tried to get me to play twice already. She’s also pushed her way into her brother’s room, three times. He and a friend are playing games on laptops (both belong to the friend). As you can well imagine, the interference of a 2 1/2 year-old is not exactly welcome.

I do fight for the opportunity to write, but it feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day, or maybe – more likely – I’m just not managing the hours I do have very well. I am not at all grateful for perpetual interruptions, or my own piss-poor time management skills. Obviously it would be easier without Avery, but it’s hard to blame her. Also, when I’m at work, I really start to miss her little face. Braeden is in school all day, so I’m used to longer blocks of time without him (and still, the four days of Outdoor Science School tested my sanity). After just a few hours without Avery, my heart starts to ache. She may drive me crazy just by virtue of being a typical toddler, but she’s mine and I love her madly. Sometimes I sit and gaze at her face and am melted into a puddle by her beauty and her sweetness. I am so lucky.

I was so excited to actually capture this stunning sunset tonight. We were at Toys ‘R’ Us because my son wanted to get another game for his 3DS, and we were there quite awhile because Grandma was being a grandma. We were finally waiting in line to pay when I looked out the window and saw the sunset. Amazing! So of course I ran outside to take a picture. I was excited when I realized it had turned out because I’m not really the world’s best photographer, and all I had was my cell phone. The odds were therefore not in my favor, and yet.

Grateful to have caught the moment, and grateful to Grandma for giving my kids things I can’t right now.

I absolutely LOVE this picture of Avery. It captures her in all of her glory: feisty, funny and ready to take over the world. In general, this energy she has fuels me. Yes, sometimes she overwhelms me. I got relatively little sleep last night and have been dragging today. It’s been hard to self-motivate. I’m still trying to shake the tail end of this cold, and it’s made me a bit more sluggish than would be normal (I am not super high-energy even on my best day). Anyway, Chris took this picture of Avery this afternoon, and when I saw it I instantly smiled. I am grateful for every feisty, funny, exhausting, butt-kicking inch of her.

Today, I am grateful for my daughter Avery. Yes, she is Two with a capital T. Yes, she pushes my buttons and makes me crazier than her brother ever did, or ever could. She is feisty, stubborn and controlling. I find myself actively working not to scream at her on a daily basis. Did I mention that she pushes my buttons?

And yet… she’s smart and so very funny. She has a wicked sense of humor and an oddly deep (and sometimes evil) laugh to go with it. She reminds me of myself, often. She wants everything her way and God help everyone in her path when that fails to happen. She’s dramatic and emotional, but she often takes me by surprise with her sweetness. She’s very concerned with other people’s boo-boos, and will go out of her way to ask about them, always offering kisses to make them better. She has a whole menagerie of stuffed animals that must accompany her to bed, all not-so-creatively named… “Monkey,” “Doggie,” “Baby,” etc. If one is missing she’s acutely aware of it and the world must stop until the lost pet is found. She breaks my heart about 10 times a day, but I absolutely adore her.

No, it’s not a post about me, I swear. This is my daughter Avery’s favorite current word, and it’s her shorthand for “I’ll do it myself.” Avery is an exceptionally independent little girl. I wasn’t entirely prepared for that. Her easygoing brother was quite happy to be waited on hand and foot, thank you very much. Not Avery. She wants control, in a big way. She wants everything to be her way, her choice. And naturally, if it must be done, Avery wants to be the one doing it. Getting dressed, pointing out where the Cheerios are (just in case I’d forgotten, you know), getting her own spoon, climbing into her high chair (which she will also attempt to do even if the tray is already in place, blocking her climb; it isn’t pretty)…. She wants to brush her own teeth, her own hair. You get the idea. I accommodate her independent streak whenever possible, even when it makes a task take three times longer to do than if I had done it. I know it’s part of her process, and I appreciate that. Well, most of the time.

Sometimes, though, her desire to control her environment becomes a problem. The night before last, she climbed over the child gate between our bedroom and the living room. She managed it well enough, but it’s possible that future attempts might end less smoothly. This morning on the way out the door to music class, she didn’t wait on the porch like she usually does. Instead she kept going, stepping off the porch, running down the sidewalk and continuing her run straight into the street. A car was coming. I moved pretty quickly, but she’d caught me off-guard. She usually stands behind me when I lock the door, so I wasn’t ready to sprint after her. She was halfway down the sidewalk before I realized she’d left the porch. It was terrifying – a word I now realize I might overuse – but this was the real deal. Horror movie-level panic, and there’s a reason I don’t go to horror movies. My eyes and nose are burning as I type this. It happened seven hours ago, and I’m still not okay.

She made it past our car and into the street before I caught her. A car was coming, and somehow they saw her early enough that they slowed in plenty of time. There were no shrieking brakes to underline my nightmare… God knows I didn’t need any. I made it to the street just as she reached the other side of our car – in time to realize the car was already slowing – but I still grabbed her upper arm hard enough to leave a mark. Panic doesn’t subside that easily, as it turns out. I knew the car was slowing in time, but I couldn’t stop freaking out. I still haven’t stopped freaking out.

As a parent, my number one job is to keep my children safe. Nothing is more important. I was distracted this morning. We had an overbooked day and were already running behind because Avery pooped in her diaper just before we were set to leave the house. I was so irritated with her… I kept asking her why she hadn’t told me she had to go (duh, because I just turned two, Mommy, and this potty training thing isn’t a perfect process). I was frustrated because we were going to be late to music class and stressed out because there were four things scheduled in a row, so I already knew she’d be missing her nap. It was a rough, frustrating start, so who knows where my head was when I was locking up the house. Clearly not on Avery, who was sprinting down the sidewalk. She always waits for me. Except today, when she didn’t.

Avery is fine. She had no idea what my problem was, and when I screamed that she could have been hurt, her helpful response was “Band-Aid?” She has no concept of what could have happened, but of course I do, and it’s been making me sick all day. The image of her running into the street keeps playing in my head, over and over. It’s awful. I’ve had my hand locked to her wrist or had her in my arms every moment we were outside since, but it hasn’t erased my fear. I love my willful, independent daughter, but I hadn’t thought about how her desire to do everything “myself” could become a gigantic problem instead of merely an annoyance, until today.

I assume I will eventually lose this sick feeling in my stomach, and that I won’t have the movie of this experience on constant repeat in my mind. But the lesson was learned, and it’s not going anywhere. I will never again trust that she will stay by my side just because she always has, or because her brother always did. She thinks she needs to keep doing everything “myself,” and as her parent I need to keep allowing her to do that, within limits. Her safety is my number one priority. Not getting to class on time, not focusing on the day’s schedule. Nothing matters except that she survives another day to drive me crazy. And she will drive me crazy, because it’s in her job description, and she’s damned good at it.

Thank you, God, for keeping my daughter safe this morning, in spite of her, and in spite of me. Thank you for sending us a driver who wasn’t speeding, and who was actually paying attention. I am so incredibly grateful.

I have noticed an alarming trend this week on my Facebook page. I am not at all sure of how much my page does or does not represent a typical online sampling, but nonetheless this is really starting to bother me, so I’m going to run with it.

It began with one of my friends posting a link to some random mother’s blog. I won’t post the link here; either you’ve seen it or you haven’t. Since the thing seems to have gone viral, I’m sure the woman in question has had enough. Normally her audience is much smaller, but this particular post seems to have struck a nerve. I’ve seen it reposted twice on my Facebook page alone. She wrote an open letter to teenage girls, asking them to reconsider before they post “provocative” selfies. She describes these as photos taken by girls sitting on their beds, wearing shirts without bras, or wearing “sultry pouts.” She has teenage boys, you see, and since she sees everything on her sons’ pages, she warns these girls that her sons will be forced to unfriend them. They have a “zero tolerance policy on sexy selfies.” She also adds that “You don’t want our boys to only see you in this sexual way, do you?” Good grief.

Young girls sometimes post regrettably stupid pictures of themselves online. Shocking, isn’t it? Teenage girls want to be seen as sexy by their teenage male counterparts; alert the media! The blogger goes on to say that once boys have seen pictures like that, they can’t easily unsee them. Really? Huh. She specifically mentioned a girl posed in only a towel, but then goes on to post pictures of her sons in board shorts on the beach. Shirtless and shown posed flexing their muscles in that way that young men often do to attract the attention of teenage girls. They’re all tan, well-built… if I were a teenage girl, I would almost certainly be drawn to these pictures in a way very similar to what this well-meaning mom is describing. Because – here’s a shock – teenage girls think about sex too. Ultimately the blogger agreed with the hundreds of comments about double standards she received and took the photo down. Which is fine, but doesn’t change her outlook, and it’s the outlook that bothers me. She’s definitely blaming the girls here, and not allowing for mistakes or lapses in judgment. I don’t know about the rest of you, but my teenage years (and probably part of my 20s) could easily be viewed as one giant lapse in judgment. Bottom line, I screwed up a lot. To me, this seems normal, all part of the process. But I have other questions here, such as why a teenage girl sitting in her bedroom wearing a sultry pout is viewed as a photo necessary to ban? And the girl in the towel… well, not the best choice she could have made, but it probably covered more territory than the blogger’s sons’ board shorts. Again, double standards. It seems ridiculous to me. Why are the teenage girls always the ones blamed?

Teenage girls are more readily viewed as sex objects, and therein lies the real issue. Picture a teenage boy, sitting on his bed, wearing a sultry pout. More comical than sexy, right? Cultural bias, and the teenage girls aren’t responsible for that. I find the lack of forgiveness particularly disturbing. The mom is so gung-ho to protect her sons’ virtue, she seems to be blaming the teenage girls for acting like teenage girls… a little naive, maybe sometimes stupid. Deliberately provocative, even. Has she never been a teenage girl? Did she skip that stage? In my opinion if her sons are unable to “unsee” one of these selfies and from that point forward only think of the girls in question in a sexual way, then the fault lies with the boys. Period. Also, both teenage boys and teenage girls think of each other in a sexual way, selfies or no selfies. Acceptance of this as fact might be a good first step. The second step might be to relax. Most of us come out okay in the end, regardless of regrettable teenage mistakes. Thank God I didn’t live my teenage years in a world where the internet existed. I would not have fared well.

Tonight I saw a post that slammed teenage girls for “twerking.” Yes, I’ve seen the video. It’s a move I won’t be attempting, ever. But it’s still just a dance move, not the road to prostitution. In my day (yes, I just said “my day” – help!), there was freaking, and I did my share in clubs. Freaking is also a dance move, and to be blunt it pretty much resembles dry humping. It looks sexual, and it’s meant to look sexual. I certainly wanted to look sexy doing it. It doesn’t mean I wasn’t a “good girl” or that I didn’t turn out okay. I’m a wife and a mom, a good friend and a decent human being. A dance move, however overtly sexual, changes none of that. Someone suggested she would instruct her sons to avoid girls who danced this way. Again, good grief.

So much judgment. And of teenage girls, a group who need our support and understanding the most. Those years can be rough. Why are we villifying these girls just for going through their own processes? To me, it seems little different than my own. I made mistakes, and regrettable, embarrassing choices. I assume most of us did. I certainly wouldn’t want to have been singled out as someone to avoid, or “unfriend.” I seriously doubt that the shame of that would have turned me into a better person, or caused me to make wiser choices. I really, really hate judgment. As women, shouldn’t we be concentrating on supporting each other, not turning on each other? Less blaming and shaming, more love and support. How’s that for a concept?

There are 25 days and counting between now and the Toad Album Release show at the Troubadour. I feel like I’ve made significant improvements in the last week in terms of eating sanely and getting regular exercise. Again, improvement is pretty much my goal. Nothing nuts… no “I will lose 20 pounds in 25 days” nonsense. I’ve pulled that routine in the distant past and it gets me nowhere but miserable. This is less about appearance and all about attitude. I really just want to feel better. If I stay the current course and continue to walk regularly and actually pay attention to what I’m eating, I’ll walk into that show happy and feeling like I accomplished something. It’s mainly about self-perception. When I’m in sloth mode, I view myself disparagingly. When I’m making an effort, I tend to view myself and the world at large more positively, regardless of the number on the scale.

That said, Chris just texted to say he was working on a big project and would be late. This undoubtedly means no walking for me tonight. I can’t say I’m entirely sorry. I’ve been exhausted all day. Chris’ alarm went off at 5:30 AM, and I turned it off, which happens a lot. Today I unfortunately had an awful time getting back to sleep… I was awake for about two hours. Avery woke up at 9:30, and while I convinced her to stay in bed for nearly an hour, awake is awake. I’m really feeling that lost sleep. I don’t have a clear solution to the alarm problem. Our bedroom is small, and the alarm clock sits on a dresser closest to my side of the bed. When it goes off, I notice it immediately, and I have only one clear thought: Don’t let it wake Avery! So I stumble out of bed and turn it off before Chris even seems to stir. He’s suggested moving it to his side of the bed, but the only place for it would be the bedside table. I am concerned that if he didn’t have to get up to turn it off he’d end up falling back asleep and never even realize what had happened. Right now I’m turning it off more often than he is, which sucks for me, especially when sleep proves elusive afterward.

So Day One of the head designer’s vacation and Chris is stuck at work. I wonder if that will prove to be a trend. I have mixed feelings, obviously. More money is a very good thing, but less walking would be an accidental result. That part is less inspiring, as is the notion of playing the role of solo parent 12+ hours a day. For his sake, I have to hope he’s there quite late. Traffic is a fickle beast. If he leaves precisely at 5:00, he can be home in an hour and 15 minutes. If he leaves even 15 minutes late, he might have a two-hour-drive home. He’s better off working until 7:00 PM or later than he he working until 6 PM. Neither is super-appealing for me, but I don’t want him returning tired and miserable.

Chris’ uncle offered to buy him a ticket to the Toad show, an unexpected gesture that was very much appreciated. Even more surprising, a good friend then offered Chris a ticket for free. The generosity is appreciated on all counts. From my end, it’s an even bigger deal because I kept trying to picture myself standing at the show without Chris and failing. Don’t get me wrong… I would have gone without him, had push come to shove. Not only am I a huge fan, but I have met some of my closest friends in life through this band. It’s more than just “I love the music,” although of course I do. They’re woven into the fabric of my life. To have them put out a new album 16 years later is incredible. So many good friends are coming into town for this show… it’s a very big deal for us. I can say with utter seriousness that my life would be very different if I weren’t a Toad fan. It sounds crazy – and on occasion it has been crazy – but again, most of my friends have come into my life through their music, and some in unimaginable ways. My level of gratitude here is enormous. I get a little choked up just thinking about it.

Chris just texted again to say that he’s leaving around 6:30. I’m a bit nervous for him. I hope the traffic is at least semi-bearable, and I hope he returns to us soon. It’s funny, as the result of unemployment, I’ve spent the better part of several years with him literally 24 hours a day. There were contract jobs here and there, but still. There has been an awful lot of togetherness, and I can’t say I’d recommend it. The combination of stress and constant contact does get to be a bit much. Still, the surprise is that the minute he’s actually away, I miss him. You’d think I would have gotten my fill, and then some. It would seem not. I adore him. I’ve had “for better and for worse,” and regardless I can’t imagine my life without him. He’s it for me, and always has been. From the day we met there was magic. Life isn’t always easy, but it did give me Chris. No complaints.

You will be 10 years old tomorrow. Like moms the world over, I find myself blindsided by this. It truly feels like yesterday that I gave birth to you. While many of the details of my past are murky, that day stands out with absolute clarity. I remember it all… my first contraction, not being quite sure, telling your Daddy to go ahead and go to work, in case this wasn’t “the real thing.” Oh, but it was. I remember calling Grammy, and her coming over, and finally being convinced that I had waited long enough, that it was time to go to the hospital NOW! I remember being driven in my friend’s brand-new car, and being terrified my water would break all over her front seat (it didn’t). I remember reaching the hospital and being in so much pain I could no longer walk. I remember the nurse who examined me in triage saying, “Let’s see what all this fuss is about,” and my satisfaction when she announced, startled, “You’re already seven centimeters dilated.” Yep, that was what all the “fuss” was about, bitch.

I remember my absolute gratitude for the man who gave me my epidural, which returned me to a place of wonder instead of one of anguish. I remember hours went by, but still you wouldn’t drop. I remember the stress in the room, and that the doctor was convinced I’d need a c-section. I remember asking if I could at least try to push, and him agreeing, but making it obvious that he thought my attempt would make no difference. I remember my nurse, a much nicer one than the triage bitch, encouraging me. I remember holding your Daddy’s hand, and Glen’s voice filling my ears because they allowed you to bring your own music, so I’d brought “Live at Largo” and “Dulcinea” and every other CD I wanted as the soundtrack to this day, this beginning. I remember that I pushed only once and down came your head, startling the nice nurse and causing her to page the doctor. Ha, c-section? It so wasn’t on my list. The doctor returned, and only 30 minutes later you were born, eight pounds eleven ounces of absolute perfection, your blue eyes inquisitive as you took everything in. My little boy. My Braeden.

How is it possible that it has been 10 years? It seems like yesterday, an hour ago. You were and are perfect. You are kind, you are sweet, you are often hilarious. You’re more of a people-pleaser than a trouble-maker, a quality that left us ill-prepared to deal with your little sister, but which your daddy and I very much appreciate. You always made parenting look easy… everyone wanted a kid like you. So beautiful strangers would stop me in the mall to remark on you, your giant round head and almond-shaped blue eyes. While pregnant I had no idea whether you’d be a boy or a girl, but the blue eyes I somehow always knew were coming. You’ve been special from moment one, my dancing baby. The first ultrasound I ever saw in which you were more than just a tadpole, you were already dancing, legs and arms going like mad. You’ve been such a gift, filling my days with love and wonder. Your gentle spirit, so much like your daddy’s, soothes me. I look at you and know with absolute awe and certainty that I have done something right.

And now you are about to be 10 years old, becoming more of your own person with each passing day. I am so impressed with you, always. I am torn between wanting you to go and grow and forge your own path, and wanting desperately to protect you from whatever difficulty life has in store. The arrival of your sister has changed our dynamic, and I miss our quiet times cuddled on the sofa. Now I have to fight for moments that slip away too quickly before she demands my attention or you run off to play with friends. All part of the process – and so necessary – but filling my throat and my chest with the ache of loss. Part of being a good parent is preparing you to run out that door and live your own life, and live it well. I try so hard to do this while biting back tears, the tears of EveryMom who secretly wants you to remain a little boy forever, cuddled safely with me on the sofa. But because I love you – I love YOU – I send you off with a smile, and a quick kiss when I am lucky. And I am lucky, because you still want me to kiss you, and encourage it… growing and changing and leaving, but gazing over your shoulder, because you are still my little boy, after all.

Oh my God, how I love you. I hope your every dream comes true, and that the path you take won’t have too many bumps along the way. I wish you strength and courage for this trip you’ve set off on. I can’t always hold your hand, but I will hold you in my heart forever. Happy birthday, beautiful Braeden. You will be 10 years old tomorrow. I don’t know quite how that happened, but please know that I have cherished every moment of it. I look forward to the next 10, and watching as you create your own adventures. You will always be my little boy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t revel in watching you grow. I love you, always and always, to the end of the universe and back and back and back…